Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The May-Flower

by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

THE MAY-FLOWER.*^[1]

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A speck amid the ocean,
    A laden bark draws near,
Through her rent sails the bleak winds moan,
    All heavily and drear;
No light upon the headlands
    Illumes her dangerous way,
No pilot-boat all fearless glides
    Like sea-bird o'er the spray.

Slow, towards a sterile region,
    With pain she seems to steer,
No hoarded treasures in her breast,
    To grasping avarice dear;
Yet many a noble galleon,
    Where Indian jewels sleep,
Might pave old ocean's glittering floor,
    Without a loss so deep.

No broad flag proudly waveth,
    No banner from her mast,
But many a princely argosy
    Might feel the wrecking blast;

Or, crush'd by battle-thunders, sink
    'Neath whelming waters dark,
Yet leave no chasm on History's page,
    Like yon forsaken bark.

Oh, May-Flower! stricken May-Flower!
    So scourged by Winter's wrath,
What bear'st thou to this chilling clime,
    Along thy billowy path?
And the May-Flower boldly answer'd,
    As towards the shore she drew,
"Seed for a nation of the free,
    Unblenching souls and true."

Hoarse voices from the wilderness
    Spake out when storms were high,
"Were there no graves beyond the main,
    That here ye come to die?"
But sweetly on the Sabbath breeze
    An answering anthem peal'd,
"Our leader is the Lord of Hosts,
    Our fortress and our shield."

Down sank the ancient forest,
    And up the roof-tree sprang,
The tall corn ripen'd on the lea,
    The soldier's watchword rang;
Gaunt Famine, like a hungry wolf,
    Was stoutly held at bay,
And the mother lull'd her wailing babe
    With England's holy lay.

Rich was each lowly cabin
    In the strong trust of prayer,
A heaven-born might to brave the lot
    Of poverty and care;
So now a glorious nation
    Doth rise in solemn state,
To bless that lonely May-Flower,
    With all her Pilgrim-freight.

New-England’s lofty mountains
    Bow low their leafy crest,
In homage to the swelling bay
    That gave the May-Flower rest,
In homage to the rugged rock
    That stretch'd a wintry hand,
And welcomed to its snow-clad breast
    The fathers of our land.

But thou, O Rock of Plymouth,
    Like him of old, who lent
To stranger and wayfaring men
    The shelter of his tent,
Saw not, beneath the homely garb,
    With clear, prophetic eyes,
Nor through the strangers' vestment scann'd
    The angel in disguise.

1. * The name of the vessel from which the Pilgrim-fathers first landed at Plymouth, in December, 1620.